Tuesday, December 23, 2014

I was raised by Mormon
hippies. In addition to traditional Christmas carols like “Hark, the Herald
Angels Sing” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” (my father was especially fond
of the “figgy pudding” verse), we learned the complete canon of 60s protest
anthems, including one of my favorites, as sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary, “If I Had a Hammer.” The song was written
by Pete Seeger and Lee Hays in 1949 to reflect the progressive labor movement
and experienced a “second coming” as a civil rights era anthem in the 60s.

Remember when people could
protest bad stuff and change the world?

It’s that time of year
again—the time when media professionals take advantage of unusually quiet offices
to compile their annual “Top Ten” lists. Most 2014 lists will likely lead with the
tragic deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner (and perhaps of Brooklyn police
officers Rafael Ramos, and Wenjian Liu)—manifestations of the same civil rights
tragedies that my parents used to sing about 50 years ago. In fact, the past
few years have seen several stories of marginalized people protesting privilege
and power.

In 2011, Occupy Wall
Street was declared the most important news story in a year that included the
Gabby Giffords shooting by a man who had schizophrenia and the deaths of Osama
bin Laden and Steve Jobs. I had a chance to see the Occupy movement for myself
when I was visiting friends in November 2011, the weekend before Mayor Bloomberg
shut the Zuccotti Park party down. My first-hand impressions were not positive.
I talked to the self-proclaimed media liaison, a pleasant-faced union organizer
who refused to give me his real name, though he told me he had been bussed in
from Pittsburgh. We had an interesting discussion about classism and Marx, the
kind you can’t generally have in Idaho. But while I wanted to sympathize with
the message of the 99 percent, what I witnessed was less a collection of
legitimate movement sympathizers and more an exploitation of homeless people,
many with mental illness.

(Aside: 2011 also saw a black
man, Troy Davis, executed by the state of Georgia for the 1989 murder of an
off-duty white police officer. Davis steadfastly maintained his innocence, and
there was no physical evidence linking him to the crime).

In 2012, the top stories
were mass shootings: the tragic deaths of 20 first graders, 6 educators, Adam
Lanza, and his mother in Newtown, Connecticut; and the Aurora, Colorado movie
theater shooting by James Holmes, a young man with schizophrenia. The shootings
trumped even the 2012 presidential election and Hurricane Sandy.

(Aside: In February 2012,
an unarmed black teenager, Trayvon Martin, was shot and killed by George
Zimmerman; according to Pew Research Center, 70 percent of blacks closely
followed the story, while only 30 percent of whites cared.)

In 2013, we lost a
cultural warrior, Nelson Mandela, and gained another one, Pope Francis. George
Zimmerman was acquitted of second degree murder in the Martin case, sparking
protests that have simmered and erupted ever since. Princess Kate had a baby, and
two Chechen brothers brought terror back to America in the Boston Marathon
bombings.

(Aside: The most prominent
mass shooting of 2013, Eliot Rodger’s Santa Barbara rampage, didn’t make the
top ten news stories, nor did any of the 26 other mass shootings that year.
Still, in 2013, we talked about guns, and we talked about mental health, and
some of us even hoped we would do something. Representative Tim Murphy introduced
a comprehensive mental health reform bill, the “Helping Families in Mental
Health Crisis Act.” Despite broad-based bipartisan support, the legislation
died in committee this year.)

In 2014, we heard about police shootings
(many of those killed had mental illness). And we heard a lot about Ebola. As
of December 22, the World Health Organization reported 7,518 deaths in West
Africa from the virulent hemorrhagic fever. The World Health Organization
reports that suicide deaths globally are more than 100 times more common, with
more than 800,000 people dying by suicide each year. In fact, suicide is the second
leading cause of death after accidents for people ages 15-29.

(Aside: We talked about suicide in 2014
too, first in February when Phillip Seymour Hoffman died of an overdose at the
age of 46, then with beloved comedian Robin Williams’s tragic death in August. But
neither story made the top ten cut, nor did the fact that James Holmes, who is
known to have schizophrenia, is facing a death penalty trial, while Scott Panetti,
who also has well documented schizophrenia narrowly avoided death at the hands
of the State of Texas.)

Which brings me to Christmas.

Forgive me for asking, but sometimes I
wonder, when I look at the mess this world has become: what would Jesus do? Yes,
that Jesus, the “reason for the season,” the baby god born in poverty, raised
in a climate of oppression and social injustice?

Jesus would demand change. Jesus would tell
us to love each other. Jesus would die for his truth.

We are
comfortable with the baby Jesus, lying serenely in his manger while angels
watch over him.

We are less comfortable with Jesus in the
synagogue, speaking truth to power. Or Jesus on the cross, dying to save people who just don't want to be saved.

I think that if Jesus could choose his own
carols, he would prefer Pete Seeger’s call to action: “It’s the hammer of
justice! It’s the bell of freedom! It’s the song about love between my brothers
and my sisters all over this land.”

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Two Years After Newtown, Mental Health Still Matters, and Most People Still Don't Care

"On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me..."

This weekend, on the second anniversary of the Newtown
shootings, I took my daughter to see her first performance of the Nutcracker. Unsure
of the exact venue, we parked on the street and followed the hordes of blond girls
dressed just like my daughter in velvet dresses with satin sashes. I have wanted to
reenact this holiday tradition from my childhood with my own now 9-year old for
many years. But this year was the first time we could actually go together. Two
years ago, her brother was in an acute care psychiatric hospital, and I shared
our painful story with the world. A year ago, she was with her father, who
talked a judge into giving him full custody by arguing that the younger two children
were not safe in a home with their brother. Mental illness affects more
than the individual: it affects the
whole family.

This year, two years after Newtown, our family is stable, happy, spending the holiday
season the way we imagine families in Hallmark cards spend it: decorating our
tree, wrapping presents, drinking hot cocoa, and making up new lyrics to “The
12 Days of Christmas.” But we know how fragile, precious, and rare this gift of
Christmas present is.

What changed for my family in the two years since Newtown? One
word: treatment. Before Newtown, I was afraid to speak up and demand help for
my son. After Newtown, in large part because I shared our family’s private
tragedy, my son, unlike Adam Lanza, got the help he needed. A diagnosis of
bipolar disorder does not “fix” all the challenges my son and our family still
face: after years of maladaptive coping strategies, he—and we—are learning a
new normal, where we ask for help when we need it. And we still struggle, as
many families do, with access to care. But we have what so many other families
still lack: hope.

In the immediate aftermath of Newtown, I felt tremendous
optimism that people finally cared and understood about mental illness. Sadly,
I was wrong. The simple changes—earlier interventions, more access to care,
more support in the school system, day treatment crisis centers—have not
materialized. We continue to blame parents—and children—for behavioral symptoms
of brain disorders. Worst of all, we continue to sentence people to jail or
relegate them to homelessness because of their illness.

Along with other mental health advocates, I’ve watched the
responses to the tragic deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner with considerable sympathy. People with mental illness, no matter what their
race, also face challenges with law enforcement officers, especially in cities
where police lack Crisis Intervention Team training. Here is a partial list of
people with documented mental illness who were killed by on-duty police
officers in 2014:

Here's an idea! We could send an ambulance on mental health calls, like Norway does.

Keith Vidal had documented schizophrenia. When his family
called 9-1-1 for help with a behavioral episode, the police shot and killed the
90-pound 18 year old.

Parminder Singh Shergill, a U.S. Army veteran who suffered
from PTSD, was shot and killed by police after his mother called and asked for
medical help. He lunged at officers with a knife.

James Boyd, a homeless man with mental illness, was shot and
killed in a confrontation with Albuquerque police.

Matthew Pollow had schizophrenia. He lunged at the police
with a screwdriver and was shot and killed.

A woman in Santa Clara called police to say she was
suicidal. When she answered the door holding a baseball bat, they shot and
killed her.

Dontre Hamilton, who had schizophrenia, was shot and killed
by Milwaukee police in a confrontation.

David Latham, who likely had schizophrenia and had been off
his medications for a few days, was shot and killed by Virginia police when his
aunt called 911 to ask police to help him.

Jason Harrison, who had schizophrenia, was killed when his
mother called the Dallas police to ask for medical help for her son.

Nick Davis, who had schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, was
shot and killed by police when he swung at them with a crowbar.

Rosendo Gino Rodriguez was killed by police in Midland,
Texas when he retreated to his room during a welfare check initiated by his
family.

Michelle Cusseaux was shot and killed by Phoenix police who
were tasked with taking her to a mental health facility on an emergency hold.

Kajieme Powell, a St. Louis man with mental illness, charged
police yelling “Shoot me now!” They did, just days after Michael Brown’s death
in nearby Ferguson.

Chelsea Fresh, who suffered from bipolar disorder, was shot
and killed by police in Beaverton, Oregon. She was holding a rifle.

Calvin Peters, a Brooklyn man who had bipolar disorder, was
shot and killed after he stabbed a student in the face.

Thomas Read was shot and killed in New Jersey when he came
at police with a knife. He had schizophrenia and had been unable to get his
medications because of a problem with his health insurance.

This list is not exhaustive: it’s hard to track how many
people are killed by police each year and whether those killings are justified.
And the problem works both ways. Just as people with mental illness are killed
by police, law enforcement also faces threats: Mental Illness Policy.org has
tracked 115 deaths of police officers since 2009 that can be attributed to
people with untreated mental illness.

I should stress here that people with serious mental illness
are not likely to be more violent than people in the general population, unlessthey are untreated. Without treatment, the risk of violence to self and others rises. That has certainly been my experience with my own son. Once we had a correct
diagnosis and medications that worked, the threats of harm to self and others
stopped. I don’t believe that medication alone is the answer—talk therapy and
occupational therapy are extremely important in helping my son to navigate a world
that presents him with significant sensory challenges. But lithium changed
everything for my son and my family.

I think often of the Newtown families, the pain of that first Christmas without loved ones, of gifts wrapped for children who would never open them, of holes left in hearts that will never fill. And I also think of Adam Lanza and his mother and wish for all our sakes that he could have gotten treatment before
tragedy. That’s my wish for every family who struggles with the often
overwhelming challenges of mental illness. But we can’t do it alone. We need
the support of our friends and communities. We need society to stop blaming us
and our children. But most importantly, we need access to care. Without
treatment, two years after Newtown, for too many families, Christmas is a time of sorrow and loss and grief.

Monday, December 1, 2014

If you fall out of a standing bow pose, get right back in it!You've got time.

I got rejected by Huffington Post today. It stung a little; I thought my essay was interesting and insightful, but their editors didn’t agree. Still, even as my lips curled into a slight frownie, I realized I was grateful for the pinch, the little reminder that I’m not going to win at everything, and even more importantly, that I don’t have to.

The rejection email served as a reminder of far bigger failures, not stings but major body blows. I’ve weathered some more gracefully than others. But without a doubt, each significant failure in my life led to important self-knowledge that has shaped me into the person I am today. As a quick aside, I’m well aware that every one of these failures could be hashtagged as #firstworldproblems. I’ve been truly blessed in my life with extraordinary opportunities.

Failure: When I was 17, I got a C in high school calculus.

What that meant in the short term: My poor performance in calculus destroyed any hope I had of accomplishing a major (at that point) life goal to graduate among the top ten students in my high school class.

What that meant in the long term: Absolutely nothing. I still got accepted to my first choice college with a full scholarship. And as an added bonus, I aced the AP Calculus test, so I didn’t have to take a single college math class.

Life lesson: When you give 100% and only earn a 78%, you should still be proud of your efforts. But also, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist if that’s not your calling.

Failure: When I was 25, I dropped out of a Ph.D. program in Classics after giving birth to my first son.

What that meant in the short term: I was so disappointed in myself for being unable to accomplish another (at that point) life goal, in part because of my own shortcomings as a scholar: in all honesty, I do not think I could have passed my Ph.D. language exams without significantly more effort than I was willing to expend. Also, I learned pretty quickly that I was not one of those moms who could “do it all,” juggling the demands of a rigorous academic program with the far more baffling demands of a colicky newborn baby and the attendant sleep deprivation.

What that meant in the long term: When I finally decided to return to graduate school at the age of 37, I was ready to study something that really held my interest and fit my skills: Organizational Leadership. My comprehensive exams a few weeks ago were by no means easy—I’m still biting my nails as I wait for the results. But I felt fluent in the language of change management and motivational theory in a way I never was with Latin or Greek. Also, my Classics training was not a waste of time: I learned rhetoric from Aristotle and Plato, and they proved to be pretty good teachers.

Life lesson: Sometimes it’s okay to quit. And you’re never too old to go back to school.

Failure: When I was 35, my 13-year marriage to the man I thought was the love of my life imploded.

What that meant in the short term: To say that I was devastated is an understatement. I’ve always been one of those people who believed that you marry one person, and you make it work. Worse, we had four children, ages 2, 3, 7, and 8. Feeling like I had failed my (then) husband was awful; feeling like I had failed my children was nearly unbearable.

What that meant in the long term: It took me several years of intense personal therapy and hard work to understand that while I certainly played a role in my marriage’s demise, it was not all my fault. I learned to value myself, to communicate more authentically, and ultimately, to love again.

Life lesson: Take a chance on second chances—but take the time to know—and love—yourself first!

Failure: Just a few weeks shy of my 40th birthday, I was fired from my dream job, and I learned I had stage 0 cervical cancer.

What that meant in the short term: On my 40th birthday, I was an unemployed single mother of four children with no health insurance and a cancer diagnosis! This had always been my greatest fear. And to my surprise, it turned out to be one of the greatest gifts I’d ever received from the Universe. I never would have gone to the doctor for a long overdue pap smear if I hadn’t been about to lose my benefits, so in a way, getting fired may have actually saved my life.

What that meant in the long term: For the first time since I became a mother, I had time for me. While the kids were at school, I did 60 days of hot yoga. I started blogging again. I took long walks and thought about gratitude. I had a minor successful surgical procedure. I volunteered in my kids’ classrooms, took my teenagers skiing, and treated the family to lots of home-cooked love. In fact, we still look back on those few months of unemployment with a bit of nostalgia. Now I’m in my dream job again—at a much more ethical organization.

Life lesson(s): Your job, even your dream job, does not define you. Also, if you’re a woman, get regular Pap tests.

Failure: On December 14, 2012, after 8 years of calls to the police, visits with numerous doctors and specialists, jail time, and hospitalizations, my son was in an acute care psychiatric hospital again. I had no idea how to help him.

What it meant in the short term: I was truly and completely helpless. And I did what I have often done, what I am doing now, in fact, when confronted with failure: I wrote it out. I told my truth. No mother wants to admit she can’t help her child. I admitted my helplessness to the world.

What it meant in the long term: We found help and hope. My son was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and the treatments are working. I also learned that I was far from alone in my perception of myself as a failure, but that in fact, the mental healthcare system was failing me and so many other families. While writing my book, The Price of Silence: A Mom’s Perspective on Mental Illness, I was able to find even more solutions to the heartbreak. I continue to advocate for children like my son and for moms like me.

Life lesson: Never give up on the people you love, even when you’re exhausted. They are worth your best, hardest fight. But it’s okay to admit you are tired and to ask for help when you’ve done everything you can do.

These five are just the big failures. In my life, as in most people’s lives, most blog posts don’t go viral. Most calls for change fall on deaf or ignorant ears. But these five big failures have taught me resilience. I’ve learned to take charge of my own life, to be honest with myself and others, and to ask for help when I need it.

A few hours after the HuffPost rejection, I got a call from a friend. He had just received copies of a new college textbook, The Elements of Argument, which includes essays by Michael Pollan, Hillary Clinton, Henry David Thoreau, and me. Another essay I wrote once upon a time, the one about my failure to help my son, was picked up for my Huffington Post debut under the title “I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother.” Now it will be used to teach Aristotelian argument to students in college courses.

About Me

Liza Long, aka the Anarchist Soccer Mom, is a writer, educator, mental health advocate, and mother of four children. She loves her Steinway, her husband, her kids,and her day job, not necessarily in that order. Her book "The Price of Silence: A Mom's Perspective on Mental Illness" from Hudson Street Press is available in bookstores and online. The views expressed on this blog are entirely her own and in no way reflect the views of her employer (or anyone else, for that matter).